


Are You The New Person, Drawn Toward Me?

by convolutedConcussion



Series: Everything is Whitman and Nothing Hurts [2]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Introspective Erik, M/M, Non-Linear Blah Blah Blah, poetryfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-31
Updated: 2012-05-31
Packaged: 2017-11-06 10:54:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/418051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convolutedConcussion/pseuds/convolutedConcussion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles believes Erik can be a better person, believes he's not a weapon, not a monster.</p>
<p>He never <i>asked</i> what Erik wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Are You The New Person, Drawn Toward Me?

_Are you the new person drawn toward me?_

That first night, Charles kisses him. It's gentle and questioning and Erik supposes he might return it a little because the man is so damn earnest in his desire to do it and no one's been earnest in their desire to do anything of the kind to him in his entire life. They're too exhausted for much else, one by his failure and the other by his success, but Charles leaves him saying once more that he is not alone.

"You don't have to be alone again, if you don't want to be, Erik," he whispers, hand behind his back on the doorknob. Erik can feel the pressure of his grasp on the metal as if Charles is holding him.

_To begin with, take warning--I am surely far different from what you suppose;_

"You have great goodness in you, Erik," Charles says, sounding pained. "I can see that. Why can't you?"

'Because I'm not good,' he wants to say. 'Because I'm terrible, a monster, a weapon, a--'

"Stop," the telepath pleads, holding one hand out, the other pressing his temple. "Please, Erik, stop." He huffs a gentle, uneasy laugh. "You always project so strongly, my friend. I sometimes wonder if you do it on purpose." The twist of his lips is wry, so far from the friendly smile he's been used to.

_Do you suppose you will find in me your ideal?_

The first time he really shows off for Charles at the man's coaxing, the telepath looks at him with such an expression of awe that it almost breaks his heart. At length, he steps forward, the gravel on the roof of the facility crunching under his shoes. His head tilts back and he seems so unselfconsciously amazed as he brushes a hand through Erik's hair. "You're beautiful," he whispers.

At this, Erik steps back, intending to leave. He had done this to prove a point, not--

"No, wait," Charles says softly, grabbing Erik's wrist. The man halts, waiting. "You don't even know." He gives him a gentle half-smile. The telepath takes both of Erik's hands in his own and turns them palm-up, thumbs massaging gently the center of them. "Your mutation, this gift, is beautiful."

_Do you think it so easy to have me become your lover?_

Sex, the first time, is incredible. It's like nothing he's ever felt before. Thus far, any time Erik has ever encountered sex, it's been perfunctory, the result of restlessness or the release of physical tension. He's never had a partner like Charles, someone as eager to please as to be pleased, someone who seems to know his body, his wants, his needs as well or better than he himself knows. After, when usually he would push himself off the bed and flee, he allows Charles to curl to his side, to press kisses on his throat and face and chest for minutes before finally pulling away.

He retreats to the other bed in the hotel room and tries not to look at the other's hurt face. "Don't you--"

"Goodnight, Charles."

_Do you think the friendship of me would be unalloy'd satisfaction?_

They've had this conversation a million times over. Charles, for all his knowledge of the secrets of others, still clings to his lofty notions of attaining peace. Of saving the world. Of living in a world in which humans and mutants can be equals. They've argued it over chess and long car rides, in planes and bedrooms and in varying states of dress.

It always ends the same.

It always ends with Charles looking unsure and dissatisfied and Erik feeling a strange triumph at shattering his insufferable self-assuredness.

_Do you think I am trusty and faithful?_

The helmet slides cool and heavy onto his head like it belongs there and suddenly that presence, the one that's been there for so long, the one he had almost gotten used to, is gone and he is his own again.

_Do you see no further than this facade--this smooth and tolerant manner of me?_

"Killing Shaw will not bring you peace, my friend," Charles says softly, earnestly.

He's always so fucking earnest.

"Peace was never an option." He feels the hardness of his eyes, the set of his jaw. Charles sighs.

_Do you suppose yourself advancing on real ground toward a real heroic man?_

Charles sheds tears for him, tells him of his goodness, and Erik thinks he really believes what he's saying. He thinks he really, honestly thinks that what he's doing is making a difference. As if Erik is one of his students. As if Erik is some sheep huddled under his care. And yet, Erik thinks he is nearly in danger of being convinced that he could be good, that they could change the world. That together they could save the world.

All because of a fucking satellite.

_Have you no thought, O dreamer, that it may be all maya, illusion?_

He leaves Charles lying there, blood staining his hands. Blood has stained his hands before, but he can almost taste this. The bullet is clenched tight in his hand.

There's a pulse of doubt, and then the beach is gone and so is Charles.

**Author's Note:**

> The poem, if you hadn't noticed, was Are You The New Person, Drawn Toward Me? by Whitman.
> 
> Ahem, notice a theme?
> 
> And sorry to lanasauli, who was so happy with A Glimpse and its lack of angst.
> 
> They won't all be this way.
> 
> This poem just gave me all these feels.
> 
> Anyway, mostly this is just _bad_ and I used poetry to disguise that.


End file.
